


Reading the Mind of a Stubborn Spy

by tandemonium



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 02:32:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13090551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tandemonium/pseuds/tandemonium
Summary: Napoleon seems more than happy to be the Raven in their latest mission, excited even.Illya doesn't like it...





	Reading the Mind of a Stubborn Spy

Napoleon touches a few drops of Acqua Di Parma to his wrists and then to his neck. He is wearing a pair of grey suit trousers, which hug his buttocks provocatively. Illya wonders how it’s possible to move in such tight clothing, let alone walk with a confident swagger like Solo does.

He leans against the doorframe, watching the interplay of Solo’s back muscles beneath his white shirt as the American slips into a waistcoat matching the offensive trousers.

His stomach has been in knots ever since Waverley outlined their mission. _I don’t like it,_ he’d said simply and truthfully. Three sets of eyes had turned to him but he was unable to formulate an argument at least not one he could give voice to.

He clears his throat to announce his presence.

“Are you circumcised?” he asks.

Napoleon’s fingers still on the buttons of his waistcoat and he arches an eyebrow. He tilts his head slightly to make eye contact with Illya in the mirror, “excuse me?”

“Your penis Cowboy, is it cut?”

The blush that colours Solo’s cheeks is something Illya is unprepared for. His chest tightens uncomfortably and he folds his arms in a counter measure. He should probably have lead with something else, provided context or made small talk, but Illya likes to be economical with his words and it is a simple yes or no question after all.

“I… um… yes.” Solo stutters, reaching for a flashy tie that doesn’t match the suit, no matter how you look at it.

“You don’t seem sure.”

Solo smirks, “would you like to check for yourself Peril?” he asks.

_Yes! Don’t go and lets do that instead…_ “No need,” he replies, ignoring the urge to glance at Solo’s crotch in the mirror.

“What kind of question is that anyway?” Solo asks, as he sweeps the palm of his hand over his pomade-laden hair - a finishing touch to his impeccable appearance. Solo tugs his sleeves and gives his appearance the once-over in the mirror before turning to face Illya.  He looks striking and that is almost entirely the problem as far as Illya is concerned.

“A mission-relevant one” Illya replies, fully aware his argument is feeble at best.  “You will impersonate Amos Kaufman, a Jew. If you do this, then she will see… it.”

“Hmm, good point, but don’t worry it won’t be a problem.” Napoleon’s smile broadens as he strides into Illya’s space, his obvious enthusiasm for the mission should be Illya’s cue to just let it go.  It was not a dangerous mission. It’s certainly not the first time they have relied on Solo being the Raven, using his charm and seductive talents to obtain information.

But the thought of someone, anyone, getting their greedy hands on Solo’s body is making Illya’s insides coil. And it _is_ the first time that has happened.

The file on Solo, handed to Illya by his handlers in the KGB, summed him up as a highly skilled thief with a weakness for the fairer sex. Over the two years of their partnership at U.N.C.L.E Illya realised the label was somewhat overstated.

Lately, there had been a notable absence of night-time guests, which pleased Illya more than he would like to admit. Those nights, instead, Solo spent with Illya, sometimes in abstract conversation and sometimes in companionable silence.

Illya learned at an early age to guard his emotions and survive on his own. It’s partly why he excelled as a spy. Slowly, he found Solo invading his solitude and gradually Illya let his guard down.

Solo knew to steer clear of Illya’s countless old wounds but seemed happy to bare his own. Illya enjoyed those nights the most, not because Solo was vulnerable, but because Solo trusted him. It was the first time Illya was given something so valuable, that too without asking, without _deserving._

“I don’t like it” he mumbles, averting his eyes, taking advantage of their height difference to look straight ahead over Solo’s head.

“I’m going to need something more than that.” Solo urges, his tone softening.

Illya tenses and they stare at each other. The silence lingers for a few moments longer, some strange undercurrent crackling between them - Illya blinks first. “Your tie is crooked,” he observes.

The smile fades from Solo’s lips, and with a brusque move he over-adjusts his tie.  Without conscious thought, Illya reaches out and straightens the knot. The heat emanating from Solo’s body tickles his fingers tantalisingly and he catches them as they sweep down the length of the tie – abruptly taking a step back.

“It does not match”

Solo chuckles, “It doesn’t have to match,” he replies, “but tie aside, how do I look?”

Perfect.

“Passable,” Illya mumbles.

Solo huffs and turns to study his reflection. Illya again thinks about the logistics of movement in such tight clothing, and he’s about to comment accordingly, when Solo says, “It’s a good thing I’m not trying to seduce you, isn’t it?”

Illya could point out that Solo has succeeded without trying but instead he bites the inside of his cheek and says nothing.

Solo, satisfied with his appearance, announces, “It’s time for me to work my magic.”

Illya shoves his trembling hands into his pocket, “have fun,” he grinds out

“Oh, I intend to.” Solo grins at him and Illya has the impulse to break those perfect teeth.

It occurs to him, nothing he could say would stop Solo, because he _wants_ to do this. The Countess is a beautiful woman after all. It is irrational for Illya to think his confused pleas hold any weight when stacked up against the appeal of what a woman can offer Napoleon.

As he leaves Solo’s room, he is reminded of something his mother used to say, _better to be slapped with the truth than kissed with a lie._

Better, perhaps, but painful nonetheless.

-

Illya’s lips are set in a thin line and his back is rigid with tension as he is forced to listen to Solo’s charm offensive through the earpiece. Thankfully, his posture and stern countenance fit his role of security guard as he waits outside the Hotel Imperial in Vienna – his part in the clandestine operation is to intercept the real Amos Kaufman from his planned rendezvous with the Countess and escort him to a nearby covert location until Napoleon completes the mission.  

Solo’s voice has taken on a slightly husky undertone as he panders to the Countess’ vanity. Illya tries in vain to ignore it but the way Solo pauses teasingly mid way through his sentences and then punctuates them with a smile… It’s tantalisingly familiar to Illya.  Napoleon speaks to him in this tone and tenor when they have no one but each other and a bottle of Scotch for company. It always sends heat coursing through his body, and it’s easier to blame the alcohol.

He is confused to hear Solo using that voice as a seduction technique.

But then the Countess’ laugh, loud and suitably charmed, fills his ear – he grits his teeth and pulls the earpiece out and crushes it beneath his foot.

Illya isn’t paying attention like he should when the car pulls up outside the hotel. Amos Kaufman walks past him and he finds himself clumsily lunging towards him. He doesn’t expect the elbow in his ribs or to be engaged in a chase through the streets of Central Vienna. He wastes unnecessary energy, catching his charge and methodically executing a ‘KGB Kiss’ to make him pliant. He delivers Amos to the specified location exactly two minutes and twenty seconds later than he planned and it sours his mood further.

He returns to the apartment with the determination to relax and perhaps listen to Tchaikovsky’s _Pathetique._ But the moment he walks into the empty apartment his mind begins to wonder what Solo is doing at that moment. He removes his flat cap and rolls up his sleeves - knowing he’s in for a long torturous night.

-

Illya is studying the pieces on the chessboard when Solo returns, earlier than expected. Illya watches him remove his suit jacket and kick off his loafers and then re-fixes his eyes on the chessboard. He knows what move he should make but his hands have started to tremble so he grips his knees and knits his brows in feigned concentration.

Napoleon slouches in the seat opposite him and then leans forward and moves a piece, making a move for him. It’s a bold attacking move and totally the wrong one to make.

“You need to make a move soon,” Solo advises.

Illya ignores him; his hands are steadier as he moves the piece back to its position on the board.

“The last thing I need Cowboy, is your help”

Napoleon sighs and leans back, fixing his eyes on him. “Goddamnit Illya, you’re too stubborn for your own good, it’s unbearable,” he snaps.

A few moments pass as does Solo’s irritation – Illya focuses on the ebb and flow of his breath, determined to keep his cool. Then Solo bumps his knee against Illya’s under the table, “Aren’t you going to ask me how it went?”

“No.” he replies in a clipped tone. He can imagine how it went. In fact he can’t stop imagining it.

“It was a pleasant evening and a successful one,” Solo informs him, stretching his limbs as if the exertion has exhausted him.

“Good for you,” Ilya grinds out. He wants to fling the table across the room, he wants to grab Solo by his open collar and wipe that smile off his face, with his fist, with his lips. He gets to his feet before he can cave to these compulsions and heads towards his room.

“I didn’t sleep with her!” Solo blurts out, “Although she was quite eager to,” he boastfully adds.

“You said it was successful mission.” Illya reminds him, sounding suspicious.

“I got the information we were looking for.” Napoleon moves over to the futon and lounges on it – long limbed and lazy. Illya follows the stretch and sprawl with his eyes; Solo’s tight clothes extenuate the cut muscles and flat planes of his body in this position. He imagines it must feel uncomfortable but Solo looks anything but.

Illya is alarmed to note that he has an erection and then panics when Solo’s eyes move from his face to his crotch.  He tries to act unconcerned but his body is brimming with nervous energy and suddenly the air is too thick and too hot.

“I told you it wouldn’t be a problem,” Napoleon reminds him.

“Why?” he asks, unsure of what to do with the hope that’s pulsing inside him.

Napoleon shrugs, “I suppose its because you’re not that subtle and I can read your mind,” he says, obviously pleased with himself. “You’re not quite the enigma you think you are.”

Illya approaches the futon, towering over Solo, who blinks up at him, wide-eyed and exquisite. “You don’t know anything,” he tries to sound menacing but his voice is a too shaky for that. He doesn’t quite have the energy to keep the mask in place.

And his erection is holding firm.

Suddenly Solo stands up and stares into his eyes, brows creased in concentration.

“What are you doing?” Ilya asks.

“Reading your mind,” Solo replies matter-of-factly.

Illya thinks he should put some distance between them but his body refuses to comply. “What does it say?” he plays along.

There’s a pause as Illya watches Solo’s Adam’s apple bob up and down.

“It says you want to kiss me.”

“I do not,” Illya lies automatically.

“And…” Napoleon continues, “I wouldn’t be adverse to that, as long as it’s not a KGB kiss.”

Illya suppresses the smile twitching at the corners of his mouth and then grabs Solo by the collar and seizes his lips in a fierce kiss – awkward and delicious and more exhilarating than a kiss has any right to be.

He pulls away to lick the taste of Solo from his lips.

Napoleon smiles and presses his hips against Illya’s. “Are you uncircumcised?’ he asks, the playful smile on his lips drawing Illya in for another kiss now that it’s allowed.

“Would you like to check for yourself Cowboy?”

“It’s best if I do,” Solo replies, unzipping Illya’s trousers.

 


End file.
